


Strikes, Bombings, and a Thesis

by christabellamotte



Series: There's a Science to Walking Through Windows [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christabellamotte/pseuds/christabellamotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter, 1979. Remus grows an ironic mustache. Sirius defends London from the Death Eaters and himself, with limited success. Around them, the Winter of Discontent unfolds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strikes, Bombings, and a Thesis

 

**Part I**

_November, 1978._

He hadn’t meant to grow it, not really. But there hadn’t been much opportunity to shave, hidden in the cavernous bowels of the British Library, barely surfacing for tea before diving back into his piles of books again. When he’d submitted it, when he’d finally fucking submitted it, the big, looming, enormous thing that would determine what he was able to do with himself now that school was over and he couldn’t get a job, what with turning into a rabid monster once a month and all. It was done and submitted and he was finally fucking free to spend time with Sirius, even if Sirius was away more often than home these days and drunk more often than sober when he was. It was submitted and he’d signed his name and a woman whose face he wouldn’t recognise again, even though it had only been about ten minutes earlier, had stamped it with something official-looking that Peter probably would have tried to nick if he’d been there and that was that. Done. Nothing more he could do. So he caught the tube home to the crummy flat he only didn’t hate because Sirius loved it, curled into a ball on the bed that he still didn’t have sheets for even though it had been two months since Remus had ruined the last pair, and fell asleep with his boots on.

 

Sirius still wasn’t home when he woke up, drenched in sweat and disorientated, having dreamed of being chased by endless mounds of papers and awful, snapping, leather-bound books, a big, black, shaggy dog at his side. Sirius still wasn’t home, so he made himself a cup of tea with the last teabag, wincing as he picked a dead beetle out of the sugar jar. Then, he shaved. He used Sirius’ good razor, because he hated it when Remus used it and as a result Remus did so as often as possible. It was a muggle razor: the long, straight, old-fashioned kind. Once, when he was much younger and looking for his Christmas presents, Remus had found a photo of his grandfather being shaved with a razor like this in a box under his parent’s bed. He liked to think of that photo, with his mother smiling in the background, just out of focus, when he shaved. He also liked to remember when Sirius had bought the razor, on a freezing December day in Sixth Year when they’d gone to Hogsmede to do some last minute Christmas shopping. Well, Remus had come for some last minute Christmas shopping; Sirius had tagged along for an excuse to get out of the castle, or possibly as part of a sustained attempt to assassinate Remus by annoying him to death.

 

***

 

“Moonnnnyyyyyy, can we go to the pub yet?”

“No Pads. Just one more store, okay?” They were standing outside Mickersley’s Mishaps, Hogsmede’s odds-and-ends store. It was one of Remus’ favourite places in the world to hide away and read. Mickersley had an amazing second-hand book collection that filled an entire room and most of the back wall, covering both magical and muggle titles. He’d given up charging Remus full price in third year, when he’d realised the boy spent every knut he had on the dusty volumes.

“Back again, are ye?” Scowled Mickersley good-naturedly when the two boys entered the store. “I’ve some new books on the Goblin wars if yer interested?”

“Thanks Mic,” said Remus, grinning, “but I’m after something for Mum today – do you have any of that patterned china left?” The wizened shopkeeper nodded and set a course for a dusty corner of the store, Remus following at a trot. Sirius was never quite sure how Remus was able to charm the sourest of old men, and yet was completely unable to hold his own in a simple conversation about homework with a student he didn’t know. The boy’s ability to connect with those too bitter to want human company, let alone a teenaged accomplice, was incredible. If only he had Remus’ soft voice and unthreatening nature, Sirius was sure he would never receive a detention again in his life.

 

Left to his own devices as Remus and the old man debated some obscure element of literature together, Sirius found himself meandering aimlessly about the shop. He could see Remus’ attraction to the place – every imaginable muggle or wizard artefact could be found if you looked hard enough. After spending an informative and confusing several minutes examining women’s shoes, Sirius found himself standing in front of a glass case filled with knives, swords, daggers, razors… and pretty much every other sharp object a person could conceive of. Lifting the outer lid and withdrawing a long, strange object that looked something like a cross between a butter knife and a miniature meat cleaver, he felt completely entranced by the sheer strangeness of the object. Was it intended for spreading particularly tough cheeses?

“Ah, a muggle razor. Interesting choice, m’boy, there aren’t many who choose to shave themselves with these any more, let alone those who let themselves be shaved by them,” Sirius jumped and spun around, flinging his wand arm up more out of instinct than necessity, only to find Mickersley standing behind him, with Remus, holding a heavy-looking box, just behind. Unfortunately, he was still holding the razor.

 

The three men watched the silver blade fly high in the air, falling hilt down into a pile of board games haphazardly piled a few metres away. They jumped as the sound of metal thudding on cardboard sounded, despite knowing it was coming.

“Merlin’s balls,” gasped Sirius quietly, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting—“

“Quite alright, quite alright,” Mickersley dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand and stared intently at Sirius, who had the distinct impression that the old man was trying to bore through his forehead and into his brain. There was a long, quiet moment that Remus broke with a tiny cough.

“Umm, Mic? I think I’ve got what I need here… What do I owe you?” Remus dug one-handed in his robes for his small money pouch. Shifting the box onto the closest surface, he peered into the pouch ruefully. Sirius knew Remus would have saved all year just to buy this. Worse still, he knew that no matter how many times he and James offered, Moony still wouldn’t take their gold.

“Actually, sir,” Sirius piped up, a sudden idea taking hold of him, “I think I’ll take this razor if you don’t mind?” He fetched the blade from where it had landed, and turned it twice in his hands, pretending to inspect it closely. “Hmm, sterling silver, you say? American, pre-stamping? That would make it, what, 18th century? I know it’s muggle-made, but I’m sure they didn’t start stamping their silver before we did. What’ll we call it, five galleons?” He pulled the coins out of his pocket and tossed them casually at the old man, oozing aristocratic nonchalance as he did so. Please, he thought, deliberately not looking at Remus, let me help him with this small thing.

“That sounds about right, Mr. Black,” Mickersley said gruffly, scooping up the coins and tossing them in the small wooden container that served as a till. “Remus, don’t worry about that lot, we’ll square it after Christmas when ye come to take these goblin history books of my hands. And ye never know, something else might walk in over the break. ‘S been a weird year for stock, this has.” Scratching his head, he wandered back towards the storeroom at the rear of the shop.

“The hell are you going to use that for anyway?” Asked Remus, outside in the snow, “what’s wrong with the charmed one in the bathrooms?” Sirius shrugged.

“Fancied a change. It’ll piss off the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, anyway. Tell them I’ve taken up collecting muggle silver to add to the family collection. Merlin, that’ll give them something to shriek about,” he smiled ruefully, trying not to think of scarlet engine that would carry them home in just a few days. “You never know, maybe I’ll grow a moustache, just to fuck with Prongs because I know he can’t.” Smiling, the two boys trudged through the snow to the Three Broomsticks, Sirius playing absent-mindedly with the razor in his pocket.

 

***

 

Now, today, in their crap flat in a muggle neighbourhood, Remus pauses in front of the mirror, razor halfway to his foamy face, and grins, overtaken by a ridiculous idea. Slowly, carefully, he scrapes away the hair from his cheeks and chin, then the remnants of fuzz on his neck, before turning to the not insignificant hair between his nose and mouth. Pulling out an old pair of scissors last used to give James a haircut when Lily threatened to dump him if he didn’t do something about it, Remus inexpertly trims the hairs that dangle over his upper lip, returning periodically to the razor to tidy up his attempts. After a few minutes of swearing, he rinses his face and chokes back a laugh when he sees himself in the mirror.

 

Just then, the front door slammed, setting off the intruder alarms. Remus raced out of the bathroom, wand at the ready, only to find a very bedraggled Sirius covered in what looked like potato peelings, resetting the charms.

“Hullo Moony,” he smiled, glancing up the stairs at Remus as he made some complex wand movements at the broken fuse-box next to the door which served as a home for the wards. “Why do you have a flobberworm on your face? You look positively middle-aged.”

“Fancied a change,” he said, shrugging and making his way downstairs, “what happened to you?”

“Moody sodding happened, is what,” said Sirius murderously. “James told his wanker of a boss that I could defend myself as well as any of the new Aurors and so of course they called me when Edgar Bones didn’t show up. I’ve spent all sodding night digging through the skips outside St. Mungo’s looking for another bomb.”

“Another what?”

“Bomb, Moony, bomb. You know, the muggle explosives that’ve been going off all over London for the last couple of weeks? I kept trying to tell him that Voldemort’s not going to use the IRA as a cover, but will the man listen?”

“There were bombings in London?”

“Merlin, where have you been? Half of West End is being rebuilt!”

“I've…” Remus rubbed his new mustache, suddenly aware of just how long he had been researching, “what’s the date?” Sirius stared at him coldly.

“November 25th, 1978. I haven’t seen you since the moon, what have you been doing?”

“I’ve…” He stammered again. He hadn’t mentioned the application to the others; he hadn’t thought they would understand. He remembered careers consultation all too well —James' adamant refusal to accept advice for careers other than "professional quidditch player" and "auror"; Peter's well-hidden disappointment when McGonagall had told him his marks weren't good enough to take the auror application test; Sirius' total disregard for the consultations, reassuring the Professor that his family would have no doubt sorted something out, so there wasn't much point having ideas of his own. Remus, on the other hand, had reached the height of his OWLs neuroticism, and had arrived with two feet of meticulous notes on Dark Arts research programs. Even a werewolf with a full magical education would have a hard time finding work in the wizarding world, and he wanted to delay working in a cafe or a fast-food chain for as long as possible. Further education had seemed like the right way to go about that. Higher education opportunities were rare in the wizarding world – there was St. Roch’s at Oxford, but as far as he knew, that was the end of the matter, in England, at least. He’d applied, of course, but had been rejected based on his lycanthropy. Not his fault, at all, they assured him in a letter worded so politely he bit back a growl before ripping it in half, they just weren’t sure that the college would be able to support his unfortunate condition. He hadn’t told the others. It hadn’t seemed worth it. So he had trudged back to McGonagall’s office and thrown the scraps of letter on her desk by way of an explanation. Then she’d pulled out a scroll of parchment from the British Museum. The magical artefacts collection was looking for a researcher, and would be willing to invigilate the same course he would have taken at St. Roch’s. Of course, as McGonagall had informed him, NEWTs in Defence Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration and Charms weren’t enough for entry, he’d also have to submit a ten thousand word dissertation on his proposed research topic. At the time, that had been the least of his worries, just another essay to add to the pile of other essays that needed writing. And somehow the year had gone on, and NEWTs had come and gone, and the four of them had found their places, and he still hadn’t told them. It had never seemed like the right time.

 

"Earth to Moony?” Sirius picked an eggshell out of his hair and tossed it at Remus with slightly more force than was necessary. It glanced off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Pads, I…” Remus trailed off. There wasn’t really anything to say. He walked over to the bookshelf in the living room and grabbed the pile of paper from where he’d dumped it the day before. “Here.” He shoved it at Sirius. “I didn’t get into St. Roch’s because I’m a fucking werewolf so the BM offered to let me do the program through them but only if I do research work for them as well and anyway I had to fucking audition for the spot by submitting this to prove that the one night a month I’m not human doesn’t have any kind of bearing on my sodding intelligence and I’ve just spent three months writing this so if you’re going to be a wanker about it can you get it over with now?”

Sirius blinked in confusion and bent his head to the first page in the sheaf.

“Moony?” Remus kicked at the skirting board with a socked foot and stared obstinately at a stain on the carpet. There was silence except for the turning of pages. “Remus. This is incredible. Why would you… Why didn’t you tell us about this? Why would you keep it a secret?”

 

Remus said nothing. The disgraced heir of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Death Eaters who had made absolutely no attempt to organise his life outside of school had found a place in Experimental Charms and now seemed set to join James in the auror office. Wormtail and his abysmal marks had found a niche for his uncanny ability to know everything about everyone in a room the second he entered it. And yet here Remus was, auditioning for a spot anyone else with his marks would have been given in a second. Worse still was the knowledge that the only reason he even had a chance at this was probably due to Dumbledore. Barmy old codger. What was the point of offering a werewolf a full magical education if he was likely to have to work as a muggle for the rest of his life, especially when word got out amongst the magical community? It had seemed like a cruel joke a year ago, and somehow it seemed even crueller now – to offer someone a glimpse of what could be and then sit back and watch with the full knowledge that that could never be. Sirius was much the same, if he thought about it. He’d let Remus see what there was, and then nothing. Remus kicked the skirting board more viciously, stubbing his toe and swearing under his breath.

“Look, Pads, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, okay? It’s over now, anyway. I doubt I’ll get in. It was a long shot. Dumbledore pulled the strings probably.” Keeping his voice calm, he raised his head and made steely eye contact with Sirius. “Don’t tell James or Pete, okay?” They stood in silence for a minute, neither willing to blink first. Finally, Remus broke his gaze. “So, why are you covered in someone’s compost again mate?” Dumping the papers on the bench, Sirius launched into a tirade about Alastor Moody, head of the auror department, and his paranoid approach to law enforcement. After a while, they dug a couple of beers out of the cupboard under the sink and Remus stuck a record on the ancient gramophone Sirius has rescued from a council clear out years ago and charmed to work. Lounging on the tiny concrete balcony off the lounge room that overlooked the seedy alley below and provided a perfect view of their neighbour’s bedroom with Queen blaring and Sirius singing along, out of tune, as always, things seemed to fall into the pattern of the post-school summer when things had been so easy. It was easy to forget the burgeoning war, the ministry, lycanthropy, everything, when they were laughing, stealing swigs of each other’s beers and telling each other off for smoking before nicking the pack.

 

**Part II**

 

It wasn’t until the next morning, eyes heavy with sleep, Sirius stirring his coffee by magic even though it was right in front of him, Remus staring at the frying pan and packet of sausages, willing them to open fry themselves, when the moustache was mentioned again.

“Moony? The thing on your face?”

 

It had always taken Remus an age to wake up in the morning. He would spend hours in bed if he could, his body slowly adjusting to the day ahead. Sirius, on the other hand, was wide awake the second his eyes opened, and more often than not frustrated that not everyone else felt the same way. Too many mornings at Hogwarts had found a bored Sirius throwing things at each of his dormmates in turn until someone joined him in the world of the living: but never Remus on post-moon mornings. After they perfected the animagus transformation and Remus no longer had to spend so many nights in the hospital wing, Sirius took to sneaking up a stack of toast from the kitchens so they had something to munch on as they relived the highlights of the night before for Moony, who always remembered them in odd colours and with exaggerated shadows. Remus was sure Madame Pomfrey had known about it, but never kicked Sirius out, even during the last, awful, term of fifth year, when Sirius used the cloak not to hide from her, but from Remus himself.

“Moooooooooonnnnny,” the spoon came soaring across the room and poked him in the ribs.

“S’moustache. S’look like?” Remus stabbed haphazardly at the packet with the only clean knife in an attempt to open it.

“Like someone ripped a leg off Wormtail and stapled it under your nose,” Sirius said cheerfully, sipping at his coffee and filling in paperwork with the other hand. “What on earth possessed you to grow it?”  


Remus finally managed to open the packet and dumped the entire contents into the pan. Not bothering to try the occasionally-working gas, he summoned Sirius’ wand and conjured a flame onto the coil.

“Don’t say that. And, I don’t know, it just seemed funny at the time.” He rubbed it absent-mindedly with his spare hand. “Does it really look that bad?”

“Worse,” Sirius promised him. Remus conjured a cigarette and lit it on the coil. He wondered if he should mention the dissertation.

 

He was saved the trouble of having to answer his own question by the sound of James flooing in, half-dressed.

“’Morning, those are bad for you, can I smell sausages and has anyone seen the _Prophet_?” tucking in his shirt and doing up his belt, James wandered into the kitchen. Remus gave him the finger and Sirius held up the paper. “Thanks lads,” he said as he sat down. Remus distributed the sausages and toast and Sirius made more coffee, moving seamlessly around the tiny kitchen without touching, an art Remus had perfected in the first, agonising, weeks after the kiss. Sometimes he thought Sirius might even have worked out his own, but usually dismissed the idea out of hand – Sirius Black and tact went together about as well as Lily and redhead jokes. Meanwhile James doodled on the cover of the paper (“Dementor Increase in Azkaban Will Improve Safety, Says Minister”). As they sat down to eat, Remus realised he’d given Harold Minchum an impressive skin disease of some kind and drawn flowery bonnets on the aides. The three of them chewed in silence for a bit.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Sirius asked James.

“Can’t a bloke call in on two of his best friends just for a chat and some overcooked sausages?”

“Not half-dressed and insulting his hosts he can’t,” replied Remus moodily. He hated it when other people caught him smoking.

“Lily kick you out again?” Sirius almost sounded sympathetic, if you ignored the stress on “again.”

“Didn’t want me to get into a fight with her dad before work. There’s a muggle thing going on. I don’t know. It’s important, apparently,” he waved a piece of toast expansively and they both turned to Remus expectantly, as the resident Person Who Knew About Muggles. But Remus, who had a serious case of academic jetlag, and wasn’t feeling particularly friendly at the momentanyway, kept chewing without meeting their looks. “Anyway, I haven’t seen ol’ Moon-face here in yonks, so I thought I’d drop by!” Remus and Sirius both took exta-large bites of their breakfast in order to avoid answering, resulting in an uncomfortable silence where two thirds of the table tried not to spit food at each other and James flipped to the crossword.

“I’ve… been busy,” said Remus finally, fighting back the urge to cough. “Had something on. Done now though.” Sirius, though Remus isn’t looking at him, has one eyebrow raised and his head cocked slightly to that side. He can feel it. “Four-down is diminish,” he tells James more aggressively than he intends and pushes his stool back with a squeal before dumping his plate in the sink.

 

“You’re already late,” the clock told Sirius disinterestedly as Remus stalked out of the kitchen and James pretended not to be inking four-down.

“Shit!” exclaimed James, pulling a chronometer out of his pocket and dropping the paper. Sirius shoved a piece of toast into his mouth and summoned his auror robe, winking at Remus before rushing out the door. James managed a “thanks for the breakfast, Moony,” before following, taking the paper with him.

 

And just like that, the flat was empty. Silent. The wobbly top of Sirius’ stool that they really must remember to fix still spinning, the rattle of a fork falling further into the mass of dishes in the sink, the light hum of the wards settling into place, and Remus, who suddenly realises he has a lump in his throat.

 

A few hours and most of the backlog of _Prophet_ s later, the flat was starting to feel a bit more like it used to. Or maybe Remus is starting to feel a bit more like he used to. Things like that are hard to tell sometimes. After the _Prophet_ s, snipping the crosswords for later – every second one, his deal with James and Sirius from way back in third year when one of them, he could never remember which, first got a subscription. He took one, James and Sirius shared the second, Peter geminio’d the lot as part of an ongoing bet that he could complete any crossword faster than the three of them with his hands behind his back – he put a charm on the dishes and made a list of what they needed from the supermarket, which was almost everything. Either Sirius had lived entirely off takeaways in the last month, or he’d worked out a way around Gamp’s Law.

 

On his way to the supermarket, Remus could have been a ghost. There was something almost-too-easy about drifting down the sidewalk towards Sainsbury’s, nodding to Mrs. Singh on the corner, crossing just before the lights changed. The mother pushing a stroller with a crying baby and groceries hanging off the handle had no idea that he, Remus Lupin, wizard and werewolf, was taking an absurd gamble he hardly dared to believe was capable. The man in an ill-fitting suit wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs had no idea that Remus Lupin had hid this from the four people in the world he cared the most about. The boy on a bicycle with a Tom Baker scarf streaming out behind him had no idea that Remus Lupin had hid all of this because he dreaded the look of pity on his flatmate’s face. The woman crossing at the lights, slightly unsteady in her heels, had no idea that Remus Lupin had kissed his flatmate and couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again and again and again. The security guard outside the bank had no idea that Remus Lupin was as bent as a three-galleon coin.

 

With that terrible, fantastic thought that he had pushed aside for so long turning cartwheels in his brain, Remus Lupin narrowly avoided walking nose-first into the column outside Sainsbury’s.

 

Pacing the aisles with a squeaky-wheeled trolley, the thought kept badgering him. As he decided between sausages and chops, it ran headfirst into the memory of the first time he had seen Sirius shirtless, properly shirtless, right at the beginning of fourth year, just after summer, when they’d all started awkwardly growing into these bodies they didn’t have the first clue how to navigate. The first quidditch practice of the season had just endedand James was still in the shower. Sirius had just a towel wrapped around his waist, and was rummaging through Peter’s trunk for a clean shirt. Remus had been idly working on a Charms essay, but thought it poignant to ask.

“What’s wrong with your own shirts?”  
“Dirty. Sodding Potter keeps borrowing them,” with an exaggerated sigh, Sirius dropped the last pair of Peter’s socks back into his trunk and kicked it savagely. Remus didn’t ask why he was taking revenge on Peter’s shirts and not James’.

“I know a good cleaning spell,” Remus offered. Sirius turned around with one of his shit-eating grins, the ones that only came out when the universe had dealt him a hand of twos and threes he’d still managed to win the pot.

“Do you really?” he had asked mildly, stretching slightly to one side so the muscles under his ribs strained and his shoulders popped. Remus could have sworn he was doing it on purpose. Nothing had come of it, of course. Remus had done a load of Sirius’ washing with the laundry charm his mother swore was nothing close to the real thing and set a jinx on the communal basket so it would follow Sirius around on washing day until he put his share in. Sirius had given Remus another of his grins, the ones that swallowed his whole face and dimmed the world around him, but this time one that Remus couldn’t quite decipher the meaning behind, and that had been that.

 

Next to the lettuce, the thought bounced off the first time they had talked about girls. Properly, that is, not James complaining about Lily and praising her in the next breath. A real conversation. The first time Remus realised that the way the girls in their year looked to him and the way they looked to everyone else was different. It had been fourth year as well, but closer to the end. Peter had, successfully, asked Jesamine Kumar from Hufflepuff to Hogsmede and James and Sirius were up in arms about it. Instead of asking out girls themselves, they’d followed Peter under the cloak and returned, disgusted and with a substantial supply of butterbeer, when their attempts at sabotaging it had failed. The three of them had toasted to eternal bachelorhood (James had made a second toast to Lily’s eyes) and sprawled across the floor of the dormitory, drinking and laughing until they were more than a little warm and fuzzy and had moved onto what Remus had internally catalogued as “quite drunk.” James was seventeen minutes into a monologue on whether Lily might or might not have looked at him with an expression other than murderous rage earlier that day when, out of the blue, Sirius said, in a voice Remus had never heard him use before:

“That Mary MacDonald, she’s pretty fit, isn’t she?”

And that had been that. Sirius had joined the ranks of people who were Not Like Remus, which meant that Remus was all alone there, so rather than people not being like him, he was not like people. He was different. Maybe it was a werewolf thing, but he doubted it. It was him.

 

A frantic energy creeping up on him, Remus paced faster and faster around the aisles, savagely tossing things into the trolley and paying little attention to the shoppers around him. Somewhere near the bread he caught the faint scent of Drakkar Noir,recognisable from a mile away,and could almost feel the softness of Davey Gudgeon’s lips on his own, the rough of the quidditch callouses on his hands, the way his body felt, even cased in their uniforms (which they never took off, not even their robes, through four months of clandestine kisses). They never talked about the missing eye that was Remus’ fault, or the silences that were at least half Remus’ fault, or the events that had led them here, to this disused classroom in a dusty corner of the fourth floor, when they were supposed to be on patrol together. They hardly even looked at each other at meals or in classes. They had a whispered conversation once, in the library, about a potions essay, but even that felt like it had somehow changed the nature of their relationship. They stopped meeting a few weeks after that. Remus liked to tell himself it was because he was finally starting to forgive Sirius, might actually be able to look him in the eye, had found a block of Honeyduke’s finest next to his pillow that morning and caught himself smiling at it. He tried not to examine that train of reasoning too much.

 

Powerwalking through home maintenance, he bit back against the memory of James’ birthday in seventh year, but tasting his own blood only makes it stronger. The smell of burning gillyweed – too sweet, too sour – the long burn of firewhiskey – he was drunker than the meant to be – the soft golden light of the candles – had someone dimmed them?

They were all operating below normal levels, as a result of one intoxicant or another, and Peter had, in an unthinkably naff move, suggested a game of truth or dare.

“How many girls have you kissed, James?” asked a giggling Jesamine.

“Just Lily,” said James angelically, pressing a kiss to Lily’s forehead in the process. Remus avoided the eyes of Mary and Marlene, who he had personally seen with James’ tongue in their mouths. He noticed Sirius doing the same.

“Pete, if you didn’t cheat on the last transfiguration exam, flash Caradoc.”

“Oi, why am I being–– aaarrgghhhhhh.” There was some cheering from the female contingent, and Sirius, of course.

“Black, you fucking queer,” (Remus met Lily’s eyes) “tell us, how do you always manage to get out of detentions?” There was a glimmer in Sirius’ eye that Remus couldn’t quite decipher, but suspected couldn’t mean anything good.

“McGoogles is madly in love with me, I keep telling you lads. If she had her way, I’d have been whisked off to a Caribbean love island the minute I was of age.” There was a collective rolling of eyes from those of the group still sober enough to be paying attention.

 

A few rounds and some good-natured violence later, most of the group had drifted off to private places around the grounds or back to the castle: Caradoc and a boy from Ravenclaw whose name Remus hadn’t caught were supporting each other in a drunken piss behind Greenhouse Three; Mary, Marlene, and Jesamine had nicked a bottle of Odgen’s and made their excuses with a bit too much enthusiasm a little while ago; a blushing Lily and a nonplussed James had “gone for a walk” that they definitely weren’t going to return from.

“So,” asked Davey with a dangerous edge to his voice, “Black, what’s the truth? Do you really like to be a good boy for Lupin?” Caradoc howled with laugher. Peter, ever cautious, let out a breathy half-laugh, eyes pinned on Sirius. Remus stared intently at his feet, willing the ground to swallow him up. He was going to kill Davey. He was going to kill Caradoc. And Peter, for good measure. It was a shame, but it had to be done. Witnesses to this could not be allowed to enter back into the general population. That is, if Sirius didn’t kill them himself.

“Haven’t you heard?” Oh god. It was Sirius’ flirting voice. “I like Lupin to be a good boy for _me_.” Remus wondered if it was possible for a person to will themselves into non-existence. Then, when Caradoc, Peter, and the boy from Ravenclaw were busy laughing, a gentle press of the lips Remus refused to let himself think about pressed against his temple so gently he might almost have missed them.

“I’ll be a good boy for you any time you want.”

 

Before he could quite register what was happening (he was drunker than he had thought), they were stumbling behind Greenhouse Three, barely turning the corner out of sight of the fire before their lips collided, rough and hard, all force and power and need. Their teeth clicked together awkwardly more than once, but it didn’t matter when the taste and feel of Sirius was so good and they were doing this, and it didn’t matter that Sirius was high and he was drunk, it didn’t matter that this was going to end beyond badly, it didn’t matter that James was probably going to kill him. None of it mattered, because Sirius was moaning his name and Remus was kissing his neck and everything felt warm and beautiful and the faint light of the sliver of moon was just enough to catch the angles of Sirius’ cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw and, oh yes, just there, where his second button had come undone and his shirt was pulled slightly askew and the hollow of his collarbone was bare and stark and beautiful. Remus planted a passionate kiss in the dip.

“Merlin,” moaned Sirius, “do that again. Please?” Remus obliged, eliciting another excellent noise. “I can fucking hear you grinning, you smug sod.”

“Can’t hear a grin,” commented Remus wisely, kissing the same spot on the other side.

“Should have done this… so long ago,” murmured Sirius after another spree of kisses so long and deep it was easy to pretend that they would never have to emerge from the taste of each other and would never need to face daylight, or tomorrow, or the future.

But, of course, Peter came trotting around the side of the Greenhouse to make sure they hadn’t been eaten by something and Sirius shoved him away, roughly,before Remus had registered what was happening. He bit the inside of his lip accidentally, and felt the blood well up, swallowing it to avoid answering Peter's "alright lads?" They traipsed awkwardly back to the castle, Remus trying to make small talk and half-carrying Caradoc, who had passed out. Sirius has just stared straight ahead, ignoring them all, his jaw clenched so tightly it could almost have been charmed shut. And now it was all these years later and Remus was marching angrily around Sainsbury’s, scowling at small children and throwing things into his trolley with more force than was strictly necessary.

 

Adding three blocks of chocolate they definitely didn’t need and that meant he would need to leave the chops behind, Remus forced himself to think about the next time. Because there had been a next time, even after the week of strained silence and the Sirius-brood that followed, which didn’t end until McGonagall threatened to send him home for the holidays (an empty threat, but one that always worked). Even as things went back to normal, Remus knew there would be a next time. There had to be. Things like that didn’t just happen once. And sure enough, there had been.

 

They were celebrating something, but Remus wasn’t really sure what, exactly. Maybe Peter’s new job (the details of which he was still hazy on), maybe their housewarming (though really the flat had been Sirius’ since midway through seventh year), maybe another anniversary of Lily not dumping James. Or maybe Sirius had just been bored. It was hard to tell, sometimes. Regardless, there was a party in the flat. A proper party, the kind with a mess of unknown bodies, more alcohol than anyone knew what to do with, and a day's worth of cleanup the next morning. Someone had rigged an old muggle spotlight to the living room doorway, and someone else (at least, Remus hoped it wasn't the same person) had spelled it to flash rapidly and wildly every time someone walked through it. Remus wondered if he should mention the dangers of epilepsy, but couldn't think who to mention them to, so didn't. Someone else, Remus thought he recognised James' handiwork but couldn't be sure, had transfigured a few weeks worth of empty milk cartons into lopsided stools, which were already filled with a menagerie of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

"Moony, m'boy!" Peter slapped him on the shoulder, spilling a little of one of the cups he was discreetly levitating, "have one of these!" Remus sniffed, shrugged, and drained it, only to immediately burst into a coughing fit.

"What the hell is in this?!"

"Lily's calling it "liquid love" and guarantees it'll give you the best night of your life."

"Does it still count as the best night of my life if I can't remember it the next morning?"

"Have another and I guess we'll find out tomorrow!" Handing him another cup, Peter allowed himself to be swept off by the tide of people moving about the flat, distributing drinks as he went. Glancing around, Remus saw Lily in the kitchen with a punch bowl and a wicked look on her face. She winked as their eyes met, and Remus drained his second drink.

 

It wasn't until a few hours and quite a few more drinks later that Remus and Sirius found each other in the same corner of the room. Sirius, for reasons that remained unclear, was rather wet, and had every appearance of having been drenched. Judging by the smell, possibly in alcohol.

"Wotcher, Moons."

"Why are you so wet?"

"James put a bucket of water over the bathroom door."

"Why?"

"Unclear," Sirius didn't meet his eyes. Remus took a sip of his drink and immediately regretted it. "S'a long story," he mumbled after a pause. Remus considered this.

"Do you know who any of these people are?" he asked, waving one hand expansively at the crowd.

"Some are from school, and training, and whatnot. Dunno about the others. There are a lot of people here, aren't there?" Sirius gave every air of having only just realised that there were a great deal more people in the flat than usual.

"Did something happen to you whilst I was out?" It wasn't like Sirius not to enjoy a party, especially one he was throwing.

“Sodding James and sodding Pete. Sodding Lily too, probably. Plonkers.”

“Ah?”

“Sorry,” Sirius ran a hand through this hair and perched his empty cup on the bookshelf, “S’not your fault I’m a bastard. S’not their fault either, really.” Remus considered this.

“You’re not, I mean, you’re not a bastard. I don’t think you are. No-one does. Even Lily doesn’t think that.” He silently added _anymore_. Sirius looked up at him with pupils as wide as the moon and for a second Remus became deeply aware of their height difference.

“You’d think I was if you knew.”

“If I knew what, Pads? Are you alright?” Sirius hadn’t been like this, well, since that awful truth or dare game. Sirius muttered something under his breath.

“Yeah, Moony, I’m fine. Look, I’ve gotta go.” He pushed off the bookcase he’d been leaning against, swayed a little, shot Remus an empty grin, and walked about two steps before bumping into someone with a tray of drinks and taking two. Remus sighed, and went back to watching the party unfold. He could annoy Sirius into telling him later.

 

Not too much later, but later enough that he was starting to feel slightly too sober, Lily came by with more of her “liquid love”.

“Having the best night of your life yet?”

“They certainly are.” Remus gestured at the moving mass of people.

“But not you, sweet cheeks?” She pinched one of his, admittedly red, cheeks, and handed him another drink. “Then you mustn't be drunk enough. What's up?”

“I dunno, Sirius is being weird.”

“Sirius is always weird. What kind is it today?”

“Sad-weird. Like he was when--” He took a sip of his drink to cover for cutting himself off, and burst into a coughing fit for his trouble.

“Like he was when what?” Lily asked, when she'd finished pounding him on the back.

“When, umm, after, you know…” _Think, Lupin, think!_ “...after something that happened last year. James' birthday. It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it, I'll get it out of him in the morning if he hasn't already got it out of his system. I'm sure it's nothing.” Lily raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips.

“You mean, when the two of you made out behind Greenhouse Three and Peter interrupted you and Sirius sulked for two weeks and set fire to Regulus in the middle of the Great Hall?” Remus gaped at her, slack-jawed.

“How did you…?” He blustered, confused.

“Pete's shit at keeping secrets, and James is worse.” Remus scuffed his right shoe on the floor.

“So, what, everyone knows then? Great. Fantastic. Have you all been laughing about it behind our backs, too? _Poor bent Lupin and his straight friend Black, did you hear, they're shagging, what a riot.”_ He did a terrible attempt at Jesamine's shrill voice and immediately regretted it. He kicked the floor again. “Wonderful Lily, thanks so much for telling me.”

“Don't be a pillock, I told them if they mentioned it to anyone I'd hex their nadgers to the outside of their pants and then told them to get over it. Christ, Remus, did you honestly think they'd go running around the school letting everyone know?” Remus grimaced.

“Sorry, Lily.” She waved a hand.

“Oh, its fine. So, right, Sirius is being sad-weird like when that thing happened. You two haven't pashed again or something, have you?” Remus shot her a look. “Alright, alright, just checking the obvious. Anything else to go on?”

“Something about James and a bucket of water over the bathroom door?”

“That could be anything.”

“That's all I've got.”

“I can't believe you live with the man and this is the best you can give me for intel.” Remus shrugged.

“I've been busy.”

“So, I should take it from this that you two aren't still shagging, then?”

“We're not shagging, we weren't shagging, we're never going to be shagging because Sirius Black is not the least bit interested in me and even if he were, it's just, well, it's just not going to happen. It's a bad idea.”

“What makes you so sure Sirius is straight?”

“Lily, I've underestimated the extent of you knowledge about the world before but, please, it's Sirius. Have you met the man?”

“Have _you_? Just, maybe have an actual conversation with him or something sometime, yeah? Good luck with it.” She ruffled his hair, and made her way back into the throng.

 

The party raged on, and Remus was prodded into joining it for a while, so didn't have a spare moment for his firewhiskey-soused brain to think about what Lily had said until, sometime after two am, when one Sirius Black stumbled through Remus' bedroom door and deposited himself, prone, on the bed.

“S'ry Moons. 'S late. 'M an asshole. 'S'warm. S'ry.” He curled around Remus and kissed him. It was sloppy, and they were both too drunk to really know what was happening, but Remus kissed him back and they feel asleep like that, curled together and kissing drunkenly, and for a moment Remus let himself believe that this is how it always was. In the morning, he woke up with a blistering headache, a painful erection, and an empty bed.

 

After throwing his items onto the conveyor belt with total disregard for their well-being, Remus Lupin, terminally polite werewolf, snarled at the checkout girl when she bid him a nice day.

 

Outside, a group of young people wearing red shirts were handing out leaflets. One of them had a megaphone strapped to his waist, and was in the process of climbing the gaudy statue of a long-dead mayor at the centre of the square. Reaching the top, he shouted into the megaphone:

“The TUC doesn't have our backs! Callaghan and his cronies are as bad as the Tories, they're only after their own profits! We need to strike, and strike now to show them that we deserve more than this! When I say 'workers,' you say 'strike.' Workers!”

“STRIKE!” The group in red below bellowed back.

“Workers!”

“STRIKE!” Passing them, Remus shook his head. Was there a government in the world that wasn't going to the dogs? At the newsagent on the corner, he stopped and bought a copy of the _Telegraph_. He was definitely behind on muggle news.

 

 

 


End file.
